A day crawled by in the heart of the orc village. Azrael found himself in a bizarre and deeply uncomfortable position.

He wasn't locked in the cage anymore, the rough wooden bars were replaced by the stifling proximity of the Orc Queen herself.

He was treated almost like royalty, or perhaps more accurately like a particularly exotic and slightly fragile pet.

He sat on thick, scratchy furs piled beside Groka's imposing throne, offered chunks of barely cooked, blood-dripping meat and forced himself to watch the brutal daily life of the orc clan unfold.

The Queen – Groka, as he'd heard from the guttural barks of her guards.

she was a force of nature packed into a hulking green frame. She ruled with an iron fist, a terrifyingly short temper, and decisions made solely on instinct and dominance.

He watched her handle clan affairs, which mostly seemed to involve orcs shouting at each other until Groka roared louder.

One unfortunate orc, smaller and visibly trembling, was dragged before her from the scene it looked like he was accused of stealing rations.

Azrael couldn't understand the harsh language flying back and forth but he saw the raw fear etched into the accused's eyes and almost bored anger tightening Groka's tusked face.

Her judgment was swift and brutal. She pointed a thick green finger, barked a single, sharp order, and two larger even more brutish orcs seized the accused by the arms, dragging him kicking and squealing out of the throne hut.

'Justice here is simple,' Azrael thought grimly, forcing himself to look away from the hut entrance, focusing instead on a particularly interesting crack in the floor. 'And loud. Very, very loud.'

When the sounds outside finally subsided, Groka turned back to him. The transformation was jarring, almost sickening. The fierce, commanding ruler vanished in an instant, replaced by something unsettlingly soft, almost tender.

A genuine, almost loving smile spread across her tusked face, crinkling the corners of her dark, beady eyes.

She reached over and took his hand, her massive green fingers surprisingly gentle as they completely enveloped his.

The calloused skin felt rough against his own. Her touch sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

'Okay, System,' he thought desperately, trying not to visibly recoil. 'That Charisma boost? Maybe dial it back a notch. Or ten. This is getting seriously creepy.'

Just as he was contemplating how to subtly retrieve his hand without potentially losing it at the wrist, the hut's heavy hide flap burst open again.

Several orcs stumbled in, their bodies covered in fresh, glistening blood, their faces masks of raw panic and pain.

They roared something in their harsh tongue, gesturing wildly towards the forest. Groka listened, her strange, soft smile vanishing instantly, replaced by a thunderous fury that made the very air in the hut feel heavy.

She rose from her throne, her sheer size seeming to fill the entire space, casting Azrael into deep shadow. More guttural exchanges followed, her voice rising from a low growl to a terrifying, ground-shaking roar.

She stormed over to a corner of the hut and grabbed her weapon – a massive, crude wooden bat, thicker than Azrael's thigh, wrapped with rusty nails. It looked like it could pulp a tree trunk, let alone a person.

She gave Azrael one last look, the fury in her eyes momentarily softening back into that strange, possessive smile.

Then, she charged out of the hut, bellowing orders to the remaining guards outside, her voice echoing through the suddenly chaotic village.

Silence fell inside the throne hut. Azrael was alone. The guards outside scrambled to follow their queen, their heavy footsteps fading into the distance.

His heart started hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden quiet. 'This is it. My chance. My only chance.'

He didn't waste a second. He slipped out from behind the imposing throne, moving as quietly as his aching body allowed. He peeked cautiously through the hide flap.

The village center was a whirlwind of motion – orcs grabbing crude axes and spears, shouting in panic, running towards the forest edge where the sounds of fighting were now clearly audible.

He slipped out of the hut, staying low, darting between the rough-hewn timber structures, using the chaos as cover.

He needed to get out, to find the others, assuming they hadn't already ended up as hors d'oeuvres for the orcish horde.

He reached the edge of the village, the sounds of battle growing louder now – ground-shaking booms, brilliant flashes of colored light filtering through the trees, and inhuman screams mixed with the harsh war cries of the orcs.

He followed the noise, hiding behind thick tree trunks, moving cautiously from shadow to shadow.

What he saw when he finally peered through the last line of bushes made his eyes widen in disbelief.

It was a massacre.

The forest floor was a mess. It was littered with the bodies of dead orcs, their thick green bodies torn apart, hideously burned, or slept with an arrow pierced in body

And in the center of the carnage… was Selyne.

She was terrifying. An angel of vengeance sculpted from blood and fury.

Her blood armor shimmered around her, a swirling vortex of red and gold energy.

The blood of the fallen orcs pulsed on the ground, rising from the pools and spatters, obeying her silent, furious command.

Spears, whips, and jagged blades of solidified blood danced around her like their queen, striking out with lethal precision. Her eyes, usually wide and naive, now glowed with pure, unadulterated rage.

The rest of his team was there too, locked in a brutal swirling melee against a seemingly endless tide of orcs.

Aria moved like a ghost through the chaos, shadow blades appearing and disappearing, slicing through thick orc hides with silent efficiency. Silas was a roaring inferno, waves of brilliant blue fire engulfing groups of orcs, turning them into screaming torches.

Aelira, perched high on a thick branch inaccessible to the ground-bound brutes, rained down arrows of pure spirit energy, each shot finding its mark with deadly, unerring accuracy.

Even Astrid was there, a blur of pink hair and impossible motion, her fists and feet shattering bone and crushing skulls with terrifying, close-quarters brutality.

A handful of village soldiers, looking utterly out of their depth, huddled behind the academy students, their swords looking like toothpicks against the orcish brutes.

They weren't fighting; they were just trying desperately to stay alive, guarding the mages' backs from stray attacks.

'They came back,' Azrael thought, a flicker of genuine surprise cutting through his fear. 'They actually came to rescue me?' He watched Selyne casually rip an orc in half with prehensile tendrils of blood. 'And she's… absolutely terrifying.'

Then, a massive figure burst through the trees, roaring a challenge that shook the ground and silenced the screams for a heartbeat.

Groka.

She plowed through two unfortunate village soldiers without even slowing down, their bodies tossed aside like broken dolls.

Her nail-bat swung in a brutal arc, crushing the skull of an orc that foolishly got in her way. Her eyes, burning with primal fury, locked onto Selyne.

The Queen charged. Selyne met her head-on.

It was a clash of raw, unrestrained power. Groka's nail-studded bat slammed against Selyne's blood armor.

Sparks flew like fireworks. The ground cracked under the sheer force of the impact. Selyne staggered back a step, a grunt escaping her lips, but the armor held.

She retaliated instantly, sending a dozen sharp, hardened blood spears whistling through the air.

Groka batted them aside with contemptuous ease, her brute strength overwhelming Selyne's deadly finesse. A couple spears shattered against her thick hide, leaving only shallow scratches.

They traded blows, a whirlwind of green muscle and swirling crimson magic. Groka was relentless power, each swing of her bat capable of pulverizing stone.

Selyne was fluid destruction, her blood constructs shifting shape, attacking from all angles. They seemed terrifyingly equal, a force of nature against a vessel of pure, unrestrained rage.

But Groka wasn't just fighting Selyne.

A shadow blade, silent and deadly, materialized from the ground and sliced across the back of her leg. Aria.

A blast of searing blue fire engulfed her shoulder, making her roar in pain. Silas.

An arrow of crackling spirit energy pierced her side, bypassing her thick hide. Aelira.

Astrid appeared behind her, a blur of impossible motion, delivering a rapid, brutal series of bone-jarring blows to her kidneys and spine before vanishing again.

Groka roared, stumbling, overwhelmed by the sudden, perfectly coordinated assault. They weren't giving her a chance to focus, to bring her overwhelming strength to bear on a single target. They were a pack, expertly tearing down the lone alpha.

She swung her bat wildly, forcing them back momentarily, but she was injured now, bleeding from multiple wounds. Selyne saw her chance.

The blood armor condensed, flowing rapidly into one massive, oversized fist. She drove it forward with a furious scream, slamming it directly into Groka's chest.

Crack.

The sound of breaking ribs echoed sickeningly through the clearing. Groka flew backward, crashing through several small trees like they were twigs before landing in a heavy heap.

Her nail-bat clattered uselessly beside her.

She was defeated. But not dead.

Selyne walked toward the fallen Queen, her blood armor slowly receding, leaving her standing over Groka, her small frame radiating a chilling menace.

"I'll give you more than death," Selyne hissed, her voice trembling with the leftover adrenaline and rage. "I'll make you wish you'd never been born."

But Groka wasn't looking at her. Her eyes, filled with agonizing pain and undiluted fury, scanned the tree line, searching.

They found him. They locked onto Azrael, still hiding, watching from the relative safety of the bushes.

And then, the defeated, enraged Orc Queen… smiled. It was a strange, unsettling, final smile, full of unspoken meaning. It seemed to say, 'Not in this life, little human and my prince. But in the next, I will find you. And you will be mine.'

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